SALVATIONISM.

(April, 1882.)

There is no new thing under the sun, said the wise king. Many a surprising
novelty is only an old thing in a new dress. And this is especially true
in respect to religion. Ever since the feast of Pentecost, when the
Apostles all jabbered like madmen, Christianity has been marked by
periodical fits of insanity. It would occupy too much space to enumerate
these outbursts, which have occurred in every part of Christendom, but we
may mention a few that have happened in our own country. During the
Commonwealth, some of the numerous sects went to the most ludicrous
extremes; preaching rousing sermons, praying through the nose, assuming
Biblical names, and prophesying the immediate reign of the saints. There
was a reaction against the excesses of Puritanism after the death of
Cromwell; and until the time of Whitfield and Wesley religion continued to
be a sober and respectable influence, chiefly useful to the sovereign and
the magistrate. But these two powerful preachers rekindled the fire of
religious enthusiasm in the hearts of the common people, and Methodism was
founded among those whom the Church had scarcely touched. Not many years
ago the Hallelujah Band spread itself far and wide, and then went out like
a straw fire. And now we have Salvationism, doing just the same kind of
work, and employing just the same kind of means. Will this new movement
die away like so many others? It is difficult to say. Salvationism may be
only a flash in the pan; but, on the other hand, it may provide the only
sort of Christianity possible in an age of science and freethought. The
educated classes and the intelligent artisans will more and more desert
the Christian creed, and there will probably be left nothing but the dregs
and the scum, for whom Salvationism is exactly suited. Christianity began
among the poor, ignorant, and depraved; and it may possibly end its
existence among the very same classes.

In all these movements we see a striking illustration of what the
biologists call the law of Atavism. There is a constant tendency to return
to the primitive type. We can form some idea of what early Christianity
was by reading the Acts of the Apostles. The true believers went about
preaching in season and out of season; they cried and prayed with a loud
voice; they caused tumult in the streets, and gave plenty of trouble to
the civil authorities. All this is true of Salvationism to-day; and we
have no doubt that the early Church, under the guidance of Peter, was just
a counterpart of the Salvation Army under "General" Booth—to the
Jews, or men of the world, a stumbling-block, and to the Greeks, or
educated thinkers, a folly.

Early Christians were "full of the Holy Ghost," that is of wild
enthusiasm. Scoffers said they were drunk, and they acted like madmen.
Leap across seventeen centuries, and we shall find Methodists acting in
the same way. Wesley states in his Journal (1739) of his hearers at
Wapping, that "some were torn with a kind of convulsive motion in every
part of their bodies, and that so violently that often four or five
persons could not hold one of them." And Lecky tells us, in his "History
of the Eighteenth Century," that "religious madness, which from the nature
of its hallucinations, is usually the most miserable of all the forms of
insanity, was in this, as in many later revivals, of no unfrequent
occurrence." Now Salvationism produces the very same effects. It drives
many people mad; and it is a common thing for men and women at its
meetings to shout, dance, jump, and finally fall on the floor in a pious
ecstacy. While they are in this condition, the Holy Ghost is entering them
and the Devil is being driven out. Poor creatures! They take us back in
thought to the days of demoniacal possession, and the strange old world
that saw the devil-plagued swine of Gadara drowned in the sea.

The free and easy mingling of the sexes at these pious assemblies, is
another noticeable feature. Love-feasts were a flagrant scandal in the
early Church, and women who returned from them virtuous must have been
miracles of chastity. Methodism was not quite so bad, but it tolerated
some very strange pranks. The Rev. Richard Polwhele, in his "Anecdotes of
Methodism" (a very rare book), says that "At St. Agnes, the Society stay
up the whole night, when girls of twelve and fourteen years of age, run
about the streets, calling out that they are possessed." He goes on to
relate that at Probus "the preacher at a late hour of the night, after all
but the higher classes left the room, would order the candles to be put
out, and the saints fall down and kneel on their naked knees; when he
would go round and thrust his hand under every knee to feel if it were
bare." Salvationism does not at present go to this length, but it has
still time enough to imitate all the freaks of its predecessor. There was
an All-Night meeting in Whitechapel a few months ago, which threatened to
develope into a thoroughgoing love-feast. The light was rather dim, voices
grew low, cheeks came perilously near, and hands met caressingly. Of
course it was nothing but the love of God that moved them, yet it looked
like something else; and the uninitiated spectator of "the mystery of
godliness" found it easy to understand how American camp-meetings tend to
increase the population, and why a Magistrate in the South-west of England
observed that one result of revivals in his district was a number of
fatherless weans.

In one respect Salvationism excels all previous revivals. It is
unparalleled in its vulgarity. The imbecile coarseness of its language
makes one ashamed of human nature. Had it existed in Swift's time, he
might have added a fresh clause to his terrible indictment of mankind. Its
metaphors are borrowed from the slaughter-house, its songs are frequently
coarser than those of the lowest music-hall, and the general style of its
preaching is worthy of a congregation of drunken pugilists. The very names
assumed by its officers are enough to turn one's stomach. Christianity has
fallen low indeed when its champions boast such titles as the "Hallelujah
Fishmonger," the "Blood-washed Miner," the "Devil Dodger," the "Devil
Walloper," and "Gipsy Sal."

The constitution of the Salvation Army is a pure despotism. General Booth
commands it absolutely. There is a Council of War, consisting of his own
family. All the funds flow into his exchequer, and he spends them as he
likes. No questions are allowed, no accounts are rendered, and everything
is under his unqualified control. The "General" may be a perfectly honest
man, but we are quite sure that none but pious lunatics would trust him
with such irresponsible power.

We understand that the officials are all paid, and some of them extremely
well. They lead a very pleasant life, full of agreeable excitement; they
wear uniform, and are dubbed captain, major, or some other title. Add to
all this, that they suppose themselves (when honest) to be particular
favorites of God; and it will be easy to understand how so many of them
prefer a career of singing and praying to earning an honest living by hard
work, The Hallelujah lads and lasses could not, for the most part, get
decent wages in any other occupation. All they require for this work is a
good stomach and good lungs; and if they can only boast of having been the
greatest drunkard in the district, the worst thief, or the most brutal
character, they are on the high road to fortune, and may count on living
in clover for the rest of their sojourn in this vale of tears.